Scratch

I've always prided myself in my talent for writing, and my teacher loves me for it. We had a writing project in school a few weeks ago, so I decided to share my story. I know it's huge, but you'll survive.


Escape

   
I’m running, from a flag. The Soviet Union flag. The flag of my home.
    Sprinting away from this flag, its golden sickle and stars glistening cruelly, I spot my mother. It’s unmistakable it’s my mother. I see her flowing silver hair, her beautiful ocean blue eyes. I leap into her arms, welcoming the protection of the warm feel of her body. But that feeling changes when her eyes start rolling all the way to the back of her head, creating an image that seems awfully familiar.
    I wake up screaming and soaked with sweat. Breathing like the howling wind outside, I calm down. Just a dream. Just a dream.
    I sit up and investigate the room I’ve lived in for fifteen years. I look at the table in the corner, the wardrobe by my window, the chest with my name on it. I read my name as I’ve done over and over- John Oski.
    I swing my legs from the bed onto the floor. It takes a lot of energy to stand up, but I never flop down onto my bed again.
    Half walking and half crawling, I drag myself over to the big mirror hanging on the back of the closed door. I stare at myself in the glass.
    My eyes are a deep brown, as is my hair. The dark loops around my eyes suggest lack of sleep, which couldn’t be more accurate. I get about as much rest as meals, which is very, very little.
    Now much more awake, shuffling down the stairs is a menial task. At the dining room, sitting in a shabby chair at the end of a small box that serves as a table, is my father. His job as a fisher down at the docks gets very low pay. He’s reading a newspaper, like every day. No time for his son. No time to fix the draftiness or the leakiness of this shabby shack. He’s either in his study or behind today’s paper.
    I sit down and clear my throat. He looks up. “Hello,” he says, then goes back to his world of ink and parchment.
    “Hello,” I say awkwardly, “What are you reading?”
    “The newspaper,” he says simply.
    “Ah.” This father-son relation has some uncomfortableness to spare.
    My father is a tall, thin man with grey hair that some people say used to be blonde, but I don’t believe that. Some also say he used to be content with life and attractive. I don’t take that either. After a long, stiff silence, he says something.
    “John,” he says slowly, “I’ve been thinking.”
    Like you do anything else, I want to say. But instead I say, “Yes?”
    He keeps trying to put his thought into words, which is making him open his mouth and close it. He looks so similar to a goldfish.
    “Ever since you mother died, I’ve had… an idea.”
    Ooh. Mother. This topic usually made him grow pale. But he seems steady enough. Well, today, anyway.
    “John, we need to leave Russia.”
    Oh my. That was extremely unexpected.
    My mother can be a very fragile topic, yes. But anything related on how she was put to death has never been discussed. The wind shouts to me outside.
    Mother was a beautiful woman. She was kind and generous, and people were uplifted just by looking at her. Father always said she’d make a fine psychologist, but sadly that never interested her.
    Mom was always ranting about the government, though. Her rebellious nature just intensified to her hatred of it. Not that Father and I like it, but her loud complaints while people walked past could be the death of us yet.
Even so, she was the love of Father’s life. No, she was my father’s life. Mom made him so happy, happier than she could make anyone. Mother was his heart and soul, his light in the dark. So when she was shot, it devastated him.
Father clears his throat. He’s been staring at me, waiting for my response. Oops. A little too quickly, I say, “Err, why?”
He thinks a moment. “Because of the… bad state of this area.”
Vague. But I know the real reason.
The bane of my mother. The flag. The Soviet Union, with their cruel control over everything and everyone, supposedly doing the best for their people.
But trying to escape it was exactly how my mother died.
   
- - -
   
The rest of the day Father is quiet. All the undersized or nonexistent meals are stiff and silent. But acting like it didn’t happen doesn’t help much, and the tugging hunger at my stomach is painful.
    We use the measly amount of money we have to buy miniscule amounts of food, and we have to wait outside in lines while the freezing cold stabs at our cheeks. Father’s job as a fisher for fish he doesn’t even get to keep doesn’t support our low budgets. This is torture.
    In the evening of a long, tormenting day, I tramp my way up the stairs, feeling empty and grumbling. I enter my bedchamber, and, with want of sleep and something to fill my empty cavern of a stomach,  I don’t bother to undress and just flop down onto my bed. The roaring snowstorm outside rocks me to sleep as I fall into another nightmare.
    I’m riding on something. Judging by the sound of the sea being torn apart, it’s a boat. It is a plain white boat, no railing or anything, no mast, just a wheel on the front of the ship with my father behind it. I suppose he’s the captain. I want to tell him something, but I don’t know what. He doesn’t seem to be paying attention to me anyway, just staring ahead, like he’s expecting something. I notice an object rising up on the horizon. It’s Mother.
    Looking desperate, her hair whipping in the wind, she holds out her arms. Father wills the boat to go faster, and we speed towards her, and I almost think we’ll make it, but another object appears directly behind our destination. An unwelcome sight, the flag of the Soviet Union races up to an unnoticing mother. It rushed towards her and wraps around her, suffocating her, choking her, killing her.
    “No!!”
    I sit up in my bed to the startling sound of my own shrieking voice. Another dream. Another day.
    But the day seems a bit different when Father grabs me by the arm, pulls me down the well-worn stairs, shoves me into my jacket and practically smashes the door down, letting the blizzard and snow race in like waves flooding an empty pool.
    “Wha-?” I manage to flabbergastedly say.
    Through gritted teeth, father says, “No time. Let’s get out.”
    My father is just fabulous at explaining things.
   
- - -

    This is fantastic. Trekking out in the biting cold that gnaws at my skin while wearing a thin jacket and a thinner stomach. Having a father you’re sure has gone bonkers dragging you along the hard, rough road while snowflakes the size of cannonballs drop onto your raw flesh.
    I have no idea where Father is taking me. This was completely uncalled for, especially since the sun is just peeking over the hills. He seems to slow down a bit, and then stops at the pier where he fishes and where boats usually dock. Most of the boats are dark and deserted until their owners come back in the morning. The majority boats are freighters, due to lack of money to buy a boat, and extreme restriction by the government.
    But there is one boat that looks alive, and has a cheery glow coming out of it. It looks like a regular dark blue-and-white Soviet cargo ship, and painted on its side is what must be the ship title, Epacse. I suppose it’s a word in some foreign language. The boat looks so out of place.
    “Come on,” says Father. He pulls me over to the foot of the Epacse and looks up at the railing expectantly. But right now his actions are about as understandable as a squirrel’s.
    A slimy rope ladder is dropped off of the edge of the boat by someone unseen. Father starts climbing the ladder like a spider, leaving me at the dead bottom. I don’t remember him being able to climb like that. Once he’s at the top, he looks down at me, and the person who dropped the ladder is nowhere to be seen. I swallow hard and start scrambling my way up the ladder, leaving the sloshing waves below me. I am extremely afraid of falling off of the slimy ladder into the dark depths below. I’ve always been afraid of the water.
    I grasp something other than rope. It’s railing. I hoist myself up, preparing to thoroughly chew out my father. He’s standing right in front of me. I open my mouth, starting to speak, but he starts talking instead.
    “Follow,” he orders. And without further explanation, he’s hauling me across the ship. The sun is on the rise.
    The ship is covered with huge stacked blue crates. Father leads me through a maze of crates and we eventually find the particular crate he seemed to be looking for. This container has two doors that Father first looks at me, then opens.

- - -
    I walk through the doorway to total unexpectance.
    Hearty lights. A hearty meal. And hearty laughs from hearty men with large mugs of whisky, all sitting around a box with heaping pounds of food on it. One with a large blonde moustache and an even so stomach sees us. He has buttery hair and beady eyes. He’s wearing a striped blue shirt and over that a thick, woolen jacket.
    “Hey!” he shouts over the din. “Come and have a seat!”
    Two men, also in jackets, move over and gesture for us to sit down. Father is smiling, something I haven’t seen him do in years.
    “Ah, Phineas,” he says to the man with the moustache. “How is everything?”
    The man, who’s name must be Phineas, laughed with a booming voice. “Everything’s fine! We’ve transported over five hundred people since you’ve left!”
    Father smiled. “Fantastic.”
    Phineas bows.
    I am extremely perplexed. What the heck is going on here? Why does Father know these men so much? What does Phineas mean by ‘transporting people?’ I’m about to demand the answers to all these questions, but Father starts walking over to take a seat. Not wanting to stand alone and be the center of attention, I reluctantly follow him and sit down.
    After sitting down, the food now really catches my eye. There’s fish. There’s ham. There’s great mounds of buttery vegetables. Someone passes us plates and silverware, and Father begins to politely dish out food onto his plate, like he’s used to such fine qualities of food. I stiffly sit, though, because somehow I think eating in the presence of these people will show weakness. A bead of sweat rolls down my forehead. I can take it no longer.
    I start shoving whatever I see on the platters spread across the box and eagerly shovel everything into my mouth. Halfway through the fifteenth round, I notice that many people are staring at me, including my father and Phineas.
    “Whoa there boy, slow down!” he says. “The food’s not going to disappear.”
    My cheeks are red. “Sorry,” I mumble, then I push away my plate. I’ve never felt such a mix of self-disgust and indigestion.
    “Ah, don’t be sorry, lad!” says a an with an eye patch. “Most of our passengers don’t make it through their seventh plate!” People laugh and good-naturedly elbow him.
    “Martin, that doesn’t help the poor boy,” says Phineas. But he’s smiling sympathetically. Father is smiling a bit too.
    Martin reaches across the table and shakes my hand. “As Phineas already said, name’s Martin. I steer the Escape.”
    “I’m sorry,” I say, “The what?”
    Martin gasps and gives my father an accusing look. “Arthur!” he barks, “You haven’t told him?”
    “Sorry,” he says, “He’s so stubborn, I didn’t think he’d want to come along.”
    “Excuse me?” I say, offended.
    “Lad,” Martin starts, ignoring my comment, “You’re aboard the Escape.”
    “I thought it was called the Epacse,” I say.
    “Aye, just a cover name. Anyway, the Escape is a boat for Communist refugees that goes from the Gulf of Finland directly to America. In a week or two, lad, you’ll be freed from Communism, forever!”
    Oh my goodness.
    Besides the blunt way Martin put it, it’s an amazing thought. But I am naturally doubtful. Can I trust these men? What if the government spots us? What about food? Warmth? Water? Sleep?
    But of course, the first question I ask is-
    “Where did all this food come from?” They laugh. Ugh.
    Phineas answers. “We get all our food from all these crates. Every week, after a successful trip, we pick up more food from the Union. You’d be surprised how fast the stuff goes. What with a crew of eighteen and ten fugitives.”
    “There are other fugitives?”
    “Yes, a family of six, and a couple. We deliver ten people a week.”
    “What about water?”
     “We get that from America too. We have sixteen crates full of bottled water.”
    Martin jumps in. “Same goes for whisky!” He grins. People laugh. I decide I quite like Martin.
“What if we’re spotted by a government ship or something?”
    Martin answers my question. “Well, you might have noticed we’re sitting in a plastic crate right now. When a ship passes by, they merely think we’re just a cargo ship.”
    I can’t remember my last question. I think for a moment but it doesn’t come to mind. I shrug it off and say no more.
    The feast goes on for a few minutes, and I manage not to stuff my face as crudely as I did. I actually use the silverware this time.
    Soon Father stands up. “We need to get moving,” he orders. “I’m going to give John a tour. You,” he points at Martin, “better get the ship going.”
    “Aye, sir!” Martin salutes Father in a mock obedience, then gets out of the crate.
    Suddenly I just remember my question, but my father ushers me out of the box also to give me the tour before I can ask it.

- - -

    The ship is a pretty simple place. When another boat passes by, they make the other refugees and I hide in our crates. There are six empty containers to hold all the members of the Escape. They aren’t very comfortable, but we’re grateful.
    The family of six is Mr. and Mrs. Earna, with their kids Saylor, Ivan, Viktor, and Peter. They are all fairly young children. Alexander Elsta and his wife Rosa are a recently married couple. With the family of six taking up two crates, that leaves two others for Father and I and the Elstas and two for the crew. The crew has kindly given us thick woolen jackets like theirs. Phineas is the head of it all.
    About half of my day is spent vomiting. My usual day is laying down in a hammock set up in our crate with a bucket beside me, only getting up for meals. I am not accustomed to the rocking back and forth of the waves crashing against the ship. But overall, I get what I need, and life goes on for about five days or so.
    
- - -

    I’ve trained myself not to wake up screaming because sound travels through the walls of the crates, but when I wake up from this particularly terrifying nightmare I’m still sweating all over. Once again, like every night, I calm myself down. Just a dream. Just a dream.
    I swing my legs from the hammock to the floor of the crate. I crawl over to the mirror hung on every wall and examine what life an a boat has done to me.
    My eyes and hair is still brown, and the dark loops still remain. My skin is paler than usual, though. Probably from vomiting so much.
    Father is still sleeping, lightly snoring in his hammock. I’m about to tiptoe out of the cargo box and leave him peace, but I hear voices outside. Voices and footsteps. Heavy, loud footsteps. This is unusual, most people are still in bed by the time I wake up. I suppose it’s just one of the crew, but these voices sound unfamiliar. I can only make out a small discussion from the distant muttering.
    “What about this box?”
    “Eh, just full of canned fish.”
    Someone sighs. “Next crate,” he says after I hear a harsh kicking sound.
    I grow paler than I already am. These people are certainly not members of the crew. And worse, they seem to be coming closer to the empty boxes where we take residence in.
    “Next crate.”
    Have we been found? No, we can’t have. We’ve been passing off as a Soviet cargo ship.
    “Next crate.”
    Is there an imposter? Have we been infiltrated?
    “Next crate.”
    Oh, no. I need to wake up Father, or something. I certainly can’t get out of the box. I take a deep breath and nudge my slumbering father. He doesn’t react. I shove him harder.
    “Uhh?”
    “Hush, hush!” I whisper.
    “John, what is-”
    “I said hush!” I rasp. “I think we’ve been invaded!”
    He immediately sits up, but at least he’s whispering this time. “What?!”
    “Listen,” I say. I make it silent so he can hear the stomping of the boots and the sound of their voice saying ‘Next crate.’
    “It could just be Martin and Phineas doing roll call,” suggested Father, “Now go back to bed-”
    “No!” I say a bit too loudly. I pause, waiting for response, but none comes. “No,” I repeat, “I heard one of them kicking a crate. We have an imposter!”
    Father’s eyes widen.
    “Well?” I demand, “What do we do?”
    “I…” he says, “I don’t know…”
    The sound of people screaming arrives to my ears. That must’ve been the Elstas.
    “Think, fast!” I demand.
    He thinks for a bit while we hear the screaming cease.
    Finally he says something. “Follow,” he orders.
    He opens the door of the crate. Oh no.

- - -
   
Father creeps of the box with stealth I’ve never seen him use before. Due to our black jackets we’ve been sleeping with, it’s rather hard to see us. The men are thin and have bright red jackets on. They’ve just finished bagging the Elstas and are moving onto a food storage crate.
    “Come on,” Father says.
    He opens a crate door, making sure it doesn’t creak. I’ve never seen this crate’s content. I take a peek inside and I see long, thin black sticks. What are they?
    My question is answered when my father opens the door a bit more, and moonlight floods the crate. Guns. Many guns.
    “Take one,” he whispers.
    I do so, holding the dangerous metal rod nervously. He take a few others and we head to the crate next to it, as stealthy as a cat. This crate holds half of the crew, including Phineas and Martin. Father takes a deep breath and does something very, very unexpected.
    “ESCAPE CREW MEMBERS, WE ARE UNDER ATTACK!” he shouts. “USE THESE WEAPONS AND FIGHT BACK!".
    All the crew members sharply wake up. Their eyes wide, they catch the guns that Father tosses to them. Father goes into the crate next door to hand guns to the other crew members. Many people salute him, replying loudly, “Yes Captain Oski!” and get the heck out of their hammocks and do what Father says.
    People flood out of their crates. The rest is a blur.
    I feel unbearable pain as a bullet enters my chest.

- - -

I don't know if you read all that or simply skipped to the bottom, but how was it? I was running out of time, and so that's why the ending is all rushed. But I'm still pretty proud with it. I plan to make it better, but for now, what do you think?

EDIT- Bold, italic, and tabs are left out here because of copy/pasting from Word. Apologies.

Last edited by geohendan (2012-03-21 17:46:13)